


Pentoshi Takeout

by bergamot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Headcanon, JB Week, Just a wee bit, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamot/pseuds/bergamot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime and Brienne go on a first date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pentoshi Takeout

**Author's Note:**

> Happy JB Week, day 2!
> 
> So, I love the idea that Pentoshi takeout has become this weird thing in JB headcanon, at least in Modern AUs. This is a tribute to that venerable tradition.
> 
> I've made an accompanying photoset on my Tumblr because JB Week:  
> http://bergamotwrites.tumblr.com/post/130554997709/jb-week-day-2-red-jb-headcanon-pentoshi
> 
> Enjoy!

Brienne isn’t sure how it happens. She’s watching a movie with Jaime on the sofa in his theater room. There’s a collection of half-empty containers from the local Pentoshi takeout place scattered across the floor. The recessed lights are dimmed to their lowest setting, faint gold spots perforating the ceiling in direct contrast to the blue glow emanating from the flat-screen on the wall. The movie is an action/thriller, something with a lot of fight scenes and a car chase that makes Brienne dizzy and breathless.

At least, she’s pretty sure it’s the car chase that does it and not the man sitting next to her on the large, red microfiber sofa. Jaime has his feet up and is listing toward her, like a ship taking on water. There’s a dark crimson pillow wedged under his right elbow, the stump of his wrist presses into the cushion by her thigh, near enough to touch her but… not. Jaime’s eyes are glued to the screen, and occasionally he’ll reach his left hand up to run his fingers through his hair or pluck the collar of his black button-up, sleeves rolled up above his forearms.

He didn’t have to dress up tonight, she wants to tell him, but she bites her lip instead. Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable changing into sweats and a t-shirt with Brienne in his apartment. She doesn’t know why he wouldn’t – she sees him all the time in sweats at the gym in their office building. She’s seen him in less, too, remembering that time he tugged her into the men’s shower room and confessed his darkest secrets while she probed the tender flesh of his stump, the skin split and bleeding on the wet tile floor. He didn’t have to punch Ron Connington by the treadmill either, but Jaime Lannister is the kind of man she will never, _never_ fully understand.

It starts with the Pentoshi takeout. That much she knows. It starts with Jaime catching her in the elevator at noon just as she presses the Ground Floor button and pushes her hands into her pockets. He catches the door with his fingertips and jumps in, shimmying to the side so the doors don’t clip him. He gives her a brilliant, triumphant grin. _Cocky bastard._

He knows her schedule as well as she knows his own. Despite the fact that they work on different floors on opposite sides of the building for rival companies. Jaime is the golden boy of Lannister Funds, Brienne a peon at Stark Ventures, and they always seem to seek one another out. It’s been two and a half years now, and Brienne knows all of Jaime’s secrets. She prays he doesn’t know all of hers.

“Brienne,” he drawls and her heart does its usual little flip. Jaime pauses, assessing her in the small space. “Wench.”

Brienne rolls her eyes and tries to ignore her traitorous body. There’s a low pull in her abdomen, a streaking heat that pulses down her legs and up her neck. Her fingers itch to touch the rough stubble on his cheek, feel the pectoral muscles that are well-defined, even beneath the lapels of his dark grey suit. She’s blushing and she hates it. She forces herself to look away and stare at the red numbers over the elevator doors as they tick down.

“What’s for lunch today?” He asks, mimicking her pose and leaning up against the wall, his shoulder pressing into hers.

They’re reflected in the shining steel doors, and Brienne studies them – both tall and powerfully built, but where Jaime exudes sleek confidence, she’s gawky and awkward. She feels shabby next to him, dressed as she is in her cheap black slacks and pilling blue sweater. His hair is an artful arrangement of tousled and trimmed; her own is just a mess of straw. Irritated, she shrugs her shoulders. “Not hungry,” she replies.

Jaime cocks his head and smirks. “Liar,” he says. He doesn’t even wait for her indignant response. “Let’s check out that Pentoshi place three blocks down. I know you like it hot.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at her and she elbows him in the side. Jaime guffaws as the elevator _bings_ and the doors slide open.

The Pentoshi restaurant is called Maid of the Fields. It’s an elegant-looking place with gold latticework out front and hanging lanterns just inside the entrance. Brienne peers in through the darkened windows while Jaime tries the door. He gives it a couple of shakes and the glass rattles.

“What kind of restaurant isn’t open for lunch?” He exclaims, finally noticing the hours posted below the door handle.

Brienne steps back from the window and lifts her shoulders. “I have some canned soup at my desk,” she says noncommittally.

Jaime scowls. “That’s no kind of meal for a growing wench.”

She fights a smile at his affronted tone and starts back toward their building, Jaime trailing close behind. He proposes all manner of restaurants to her, but the lunch hour is already half-gone. It’s the sandwich place on the corner or her sad can of lentil soup. Jaime opts for the sandwich joint, and Brienne waits with him in line.

“I suppose we’ll just have to go for dinner,” Jaime laments. Brienne looks at him quickly, wondering if he realizes what he’s just said. Jaime slides his eyes over to hers, a dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Plans tonight, wench?”

Brienne is not the kind of woman who can lie, and Jaime knows this, damn him. She purses her lips and shakes her head, hoping that if she stays quiet he’ll let the suggestion drop. He waits her out for a minute, and then, to her surprise, Jaime sighs and leans forward, his face serious and a little guarded.  “That’s a request, wench,” he says, “not a jape.”

“No,” she says finally, “I don’t have plans tonight.”

Jaime’s face brightens. “Excellent. Then it’s a date. Pentoshi takeout at my place at seven. Their sign did say they were open at seven, right?”

Brienne sputters as Jaime steps up to the counter to place his order. It’s roast beef on rye, but all Brienne can hear is, “ _It’s a date_.” Her face is crimson now, she knows it, and she tries to play it cool, she really does, but her hands are shaking slightly and she’s trying not to think of all the ways this could go bad.

It does go bad. At first. It starts with the Pentoshi takeout, of course. Jaime calls in the order after work, and Brienne agrees to pick it up and meet him at his place. When she greets the woman at the front desk of Maid of the Fields, the woman waves away Brienne’s money and says it’s already been paid for, tip included. Brienne thanks her and takes the food, feeling embarrassed that she didn’t know.

Jaime lives in a posh part of town, a neighborhood of brownstone houses and tall, gleaming apartment buildings with awnings out front. Brienne finds a spot four blocks away and has to walk, hefting two bags of takeout and praying the flimsy plastic doesn’t split. The concierge at Jaime’s building offers to help her take them up, but Brienne only grunts and stabs the elevator button with her elbow. She probably looks like a delivery person, and it’s probably the same thing he offers to everyone tromping through his lobby to deliver food.

Jaime’s apartment is immaculate. Polished hardwood floors in the entrance open out into a sleek living room with low sofas and glass windows that overlook the city. King’s Landing is a sea of twinkling gold lights ten stories down. Jaime waves her in through the door and leads her into the kitchen. She sets the bags down on black granite countertops, along with her phone and keys, rolling her eyes at the perfect stainless steel appliances and the crystal stemware he’s already set out next to a bottle of wine. She’s so annoyed by the typical luxury of it all that she almost forgets to feel nervous.

“I cracked open a bottle of arbor red,” says Jaime, gesturing at the bottle on the counter. He frowns. “I don’t know if you actually drink red wine.”

Brienne doesn’t drink wine. Not really. But she needs it now. This is the first time she’s been to Jaime’s place. The first time they’ve had dinner and labeled it a “date.” Usually they just go for a quick bite after work at a sports bar. They spend the majority of the time ranting at whatever game is playing on the television over the bar, alternating between cursing the players and teasing one another. This is different, and the knowledge of that sends a frisson up her spine. She nods yes to wine and starts to pull containers out of the bags, the spicy, fragrant aroma of Pentoshi duck with saffron rice, lemongrass stew, and blackened flatbread filling the air around them. Jaime puts his good hand on one of hers and she immediately stills. _He’s warm._

“I know you’re starving after that pathetic lunch of yours,” he grins, “but don’t unpack just yet. Let’s take this into the theatre room. I’ve got Netflix set up.”

“Theatre room?” Brienne scoffs, trying not to think of his fingers on hers, and her voice is a mixture of school girl and long distance runner.

Jaime narrows his eyes and tugs at her wrist with his hand. “It came with the apartment,” he pouts. “Don’t judge.”

Brienne pulls her hand away, making a show of putting containers back in the bag and moving out of Jaime’s immediate vicinity. He tucks the wine bottle into the crook of his right arm and then grabs the two wineglasses with his left hand. He leads her out of the kitchen and down a long hallway, nodding at the bathroom door as they pass. Brienne gets a glimpse of a study and a large, dark bedroom, although whether it’s Jaime’s or just a spare, she can’t tell.

The theatre room is already lit, the bright red Netflix logo blaring out from a giant flat-screen hanging on one wall. Opposite the television is a sofa bigger even than Brienne’s bed. The walls are lined in grey and black and there are no windows. Thick black carpeting muffles her steps as Jaime stands beside the doorway, waiting for her to enter first. The room feels like a vacuum, devoid of sound, space, and time.

Jaime sets the glasses and the wine on a small end table next to the sofa and pours two glasses. He turns and takes a bag from Brienne, setting it on the sofa and unpacking flimsy foil boxes. Brienne follows suit, and the smell of the takeout is almost overpowering in the cloistered space.

“By the way,” says Brienne, digging in her pocket for a folded wad of bills. “The woman at the restaurant said you’d paid up front. I owe you my share.” She holds it out to Jaime at the same time he moves to the end table and passes her a glass of wine. He frowns at the money, and Brienne takes the glass. Jaime lets his hand drop and Brienne is left standing awkwardly with her arm reaching out toward him.

“It’s a date,” says Jaime, staring at her hand. “That means I pay.”

Brienne’s face goes crimson. “But we always split the check.”

Jaime growls and spears his hand through his hair. “Don’t be stubborn, wench.” He says. “That’s sharing a meal with a colleague. What kind of Lannister – what kind of _man_ – would I be if I let my date pay for dinner?”

She shakes her head. She feels like she’s on wobbly ground, like her legs could go out any moment. _My date_. She hadn’t really believed him the first time around. Jaime is always trying to make her nervous, make her blush. It fueled the first year of their friendship; Jaime making ribald jokes at her expense, Brienne slapping his shoulder or rolling her eyes or simply walking away. But there’s nowhere to go now. Not in this insulated room with Jaime staring at her like she’s the slowest girl he’s ever met.

She shoves the wad of bills into her pocket and takes a long swallow of the wine. It’s tart and acerbic on her tongue, but she doesn’t care. Jaime laughs.

“Relax, wench,” he rumbles.

“Brienne,” she spits, angry more at herself than the stupid nickname. She’s grown accustomed to it now, having realized that it’s more a term of endearment than anything else.

Jaime’s expression swings from flippant to thoughtful in a second. “Brienne,” he says, his voice low. He gestures at the food. “Thank you for picking this up.”

She nods and sits down slowly, careful not to disturb the open containers. The cushions are firm and soft, and the food barely shifts. Jaime passes her a white plastic fork.

“So,” he says, his voice lighter. His grin is back, his green eyes flashing. “What should we watch?”

Brienne stabs a dumpling with her fork and watches Jaime scroll through a list of suggestions on the screen. They banter back and forth for a while about this movie or that one, whether Brienne likes this actor, and how could Jaime have _not_ seen that film?! It’s a classic! By the time they settle on a newer action flick, the awkwardness in the room has dispersed, and Brienne is leaning back against the cushions, alternating between bites of honeyed duck and fried peppers. The food is sweet and spicy, and Brienne finds herself abandoning the fork in favor of her hands. She licks some honey off her fingers and looks away from the movie to Jaime. He’s eating the curried lamb with gusto, smacking his lips each time he follows a bite with a sip of the arbor red. He looks over at her and they’re smiling and there’s gunfire and shouting in the background. _This is nice,_ she thinks. _This is almost normal._

After awhile, they slow down on the food and wine. Jaime reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. He takes their glasses and sets them on the end table. Brienne helps him shift the foil containers down to the carpeted floor, matching lids to the right shape of container and gathering trash in one of the empty bags.

Jaime falls back against the couch and pegs Brienne on the back with one of the throw pillows. She lunges back at him with the pillow and hits him square in the chest. He lets out a huff of air and Brienne laughs. She moves to pull away, but Jaime grabs her wrist. His fingers brush the sensitive skin where her tendons and her veins push up. He runs his thumb across her palm and swallows; she watches his Adam’s apple bob above the open collar of his shirt. He’s looking at her with dark eyes and a soft mouth, and that frisson is back, dancing along her spine.

She’s seen this look before on Jaime, just a flash of it sometimes when he meets her in front of the office at lunch or when they fight to see who can last longest on the elliptical machine. She’s not good at playing these games; she never has been. She can’t tell when it’s a joke and when it’s not, and that scares her, reminds her too much of school and the cruelty of young boys. But there’s no cruelty in Jaime’s look, only earnestness, and that scares her, too.

Brienne looks away and the moment breaks. Jaime drops her hand and reaches for the remote. He hits play, and the movie blares to life again. She leans back against the cushions, feeling like an utter craven. At least Jaime doesn’t move away. He shoves the pillow under his right arm and pulls his feet up on the sofa, his knees bending slightly as he props himself up next to her.

It’s impossible to pay attention to the movie. She doesn’t care if the bad guys get their comeuppance – and she usually _always_ cares. All she can think about is Jaime’s mouth and the way his eyes lingered on her face. All she can feel is the heat from his arm next to her leg and the way his shoulder almost presses against her own. His collar is open just enough to reveal a bit of chest hair, and Brienne is slightly horrified by the fact that she wants nothing more than to rub her nose in it and inhale Jaime’s scent. In fact, she’s pretty sure she’s never wanted anything so much in her life.

Jaime is fidgeting next to her, his eyes on the screen, as if the second he looks away, the whole plot will go south. He’s fiddling with his collar and his hair, readjusting his elbow on the pillow. His stump brushes the black polyester of her thigh and he makes a little noise in his throat.

“Wench,” he says causally, “what do you say we move these pillows around? I’m not used to reclining in such an awkward way.”

“Oh,” says Brienne, embarrassed, “of course.”

She sits up and Jaime pushes onto his knees. He tugs the throw pillows off the sofa and tosses them into a corner of the room. Suddenly, the sofa is twice as large, and Brienne has to crabwalk on her hands and feet to reach the back of it. She feels like a fool, and her face is blazing hot, but at least Jaime is forced to do the same. She’s relieved to find there’s no dignity in crabwalking across a giant sofa, no matter how gorgeous you are. By the time Jaime reaches her, Brienne is trying to suppress a laugh. Jaime’s grinning as well.

“You find that funny, wench?” He tugs on a piece of her hair. She swats his hand away, and he moves it down to her side instead, pressing his fingers into the flesh below her ribs. Brienne squeezes her eyes shut and barks out a laugh, and suddenly Jaime is leaning into her, tickling her side while she frantically tries to push at his shoulders and pry his hand away.

“Jaime,” she gasps, “stop it!”

He does. His sudden stillness hits her like a brick in the face and she opens her eyes. His face is inches from hers and he’s looming over her. She doesn’t remember how she got onto her back, wedged beneath him where the sofa cushions meet. He’s balancing on his right forearm next to her head, one leg between her own and the other next to her hip. His left hand is on her side and his chest is heaving, as if he’s been running a marathon. The movie is still playing in the background and there’s serious dialogue, but neither one of them seems to care. Jaime is looking at her with dark eyes again, his pupils slightly blown. His gaze caresses her face; she can almost feel it like a physical thing, while the rest of him hovers immobile above her. She shifts under his scrutiny, her inner thigh accidentally brushing his knee. Jaime sucks in a breath and then his mouth is on hers.

If his hand was warm, his lips are fire. Maybe it’s the fried Pentoshi peppers, maybe it’s just him. His tongue traces the seam of her mouth and her lips tingle. She lets him in, desperate to feel the slide of his tongue against her own. Jaime groans and lowers his body onto hers. He’s solid in a way that leaves her aching for more – more of him pressed against more of her. His stump is buried beneath her head now, his left hand roaming up her rib cage, over her breast, along her neck and down again. She arches against him and his lips leave her mouth.

“Gods,” he whispers, his voice raw, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

Her whimper at the sudden loss of contact turns into a moan as he clamps his mouth on her neck and licks and bites his way up across her jaw to her ear. His breath is heavy and strangled. His lips brush her earlobe, and then tug and tease. Brienne is trembling. Her hands are in his hair and moving along his wide shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back.

She wants him. She can feel him pressed against her; he wants her, too. It shouldn’t take this long for her to realize it, but it does and she feels stupid and happy and drunk on the knowledge.

Brienne jerks her hips up against his, and Jaime breaks away. He stares down at her, holding her eyes, his expression altogether serious and intense. She thinks he might move away from her completely, but then he lowers his hips against hers slowly, deliberately, rocking against her pelvis. He repeats the movement, and Brienne bites her swollen bottom lip. This is a new kind of teasing; a new kind of banter. She wants to speak it, too. She slides her left leg against his and moves it up over his hip to hook around his back. She pulls him to her and Jaime growls her name. His arousal presses into her hipbone and his hand goes into her hair. He drags her mouth to his and their tongues dance as they pant and moan around them.

They continue like this until the movie is over, the credits rolling to some obscure rock song. The screen goes black and silent, and they’re left to fend beneath the dim gold lights overhead. Brienne’s blue sweater is on the floor, the white tank top underneath pushed down below her breasts. Jaime’s black shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the broad muscles of his chest and a dusting of dark golden hair. They’re fighting each other for control now. She presses her mouth into the hollow at his throat. He grips her hip with his hand and grinds into her until she’s gasping. He pushes her back into the cushions and she watches him run his tongue along her sternum and dip below the nude fabric of her bra. He peels it back with his fingers to reveal her pert nipple, and she almost yelps when his teeth bite down gently and his tongue flicks against it once, twice, three times. He rolls his lips around it and tugs, and the sensation is sweet agony.

“Jaime,” she pants, “Jaime we have to stop.”

He ignores her completely, moving his attention to her other breast and repeating the act. She writhes beneath him, and he yanks at the bottom of her tank top to pull it off her. Brienne groans and thrusts against him. She pushes her feet against the cushions for leverage and Jaime backs up with her. When she flips him on his back and pins him down, her pelvis pressing into his erection, he looks downright lecherous.  

Before he can pull her down to him again, she puts her hands on the bare skin of his chest. They’re both breathing hard, and she can feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips. She doesn’t know how long they’ve been at this; it’s impossible to tell in this room. It could be morning for all she knows. The idea that she’s been fooling around with Jaime for possibly _hours_ makes her face heat up. Jaime runs his hand up her arm and then brushes her cheek. His thumb hovers over her lips.

“Brienne,” he says. “We don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

She closes her eyes and tips her head back. It’s not Jaime she’s afraid of, it’s her. There’s a fire burning in her chest, bright red and glowing. She isn’t sure when it first ignited – when he teased her in the hallway at work, when he leaned over their lunch table to whisper lewd comments in her ear, when he spilled his secrets to her at the gym. Was it tonight’s dinner that set the spark to flame? The way he whispered her name just now in the dark? The way he’s looking up at her, his green eyes flashing with lust – _yes_ , but also something else – some emotion she’s not quite ready to name? She can’t tell, and it makes her stomach swoop to realize that she doesn’t care. She _doesn’t_ care. She just wants him; she just wants _all_ of him. 

She runs her hands lightly down his chest and along the dips in his abdominal muscles, brushing her fingers along the waistband of his pants. Jaime groans at her touch, and she feels him grow harder beneath her.

“You’re killing me, wench,” he says, dropping his hand until it’s pressed into the small of her back. She shudders. “You know that, don’t you?”

Jaime pouts when Brienne pushes herself off him and stands up. She straightens her tank top and runs her hands through her hair, aware of the way Jaime’s eyes linger on her face. The theater room is dead quiet, and, right now, it could be just the two of them in the whole world.

She smiles down at Jaime, blissful, glowing, burning up. She holds out her hand. “Let’s put the takeout in the fridge,” she says, her voice raspy and a little shy, “and then maybe you can show me the rest of your place?”

Jaime’s grin matches her own, and that’s when it really starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
